His Mysterious Ways. Amanda Stevens
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of patients coming into the clinic for hours with ailments ranging from dementia to dysentery, and Melanie, who had come to the clinic four days ago to volunteer, had been kept so busy she’d barely had a moment to spend with Angel.
But the child’s condition had been steadily improving. Her fever was down, the cough had subsided, and her breathing was finally normal. Both the oxygen and the IV had been removed, and with continued antibiotic therapy, Dr. Wilder was cautiously optimistic for a full recovery.
What would happen to the child once she was well enough to leave the clinic, Melanie didn’t want to contemplate. She’d watched enough cable news back home to know the miserable plight of war orphans in countries like Cartéga.
“Melanie?”
She glanced up to find Dr. Wilder waiting patiently. “Your arm, please.”
With a heavy sigh, she held out her hand, palm up, and Dr. Wilder carefully unwrapped the bandage she’d put around her wrist earlier that morning. The cotton was dotted with blood.
He looked up, his usually placid gray eyes now stern and ominous. “This is a very serious cut.”
“It looks worse than it is.” She tried to snatch her hand away, but Dr. Wilder held on firmly.
“It should have been sutured immediately. Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I already told you, the less you know of my whereabouts last evening, the better off you’ll be.”
“This happened last night? At Kruger’s compound?”
“No comment.”
His features tightened. “How did it happen? Who did this to you?”
The angry, possessive note in his voice startled Melanie. They’d only known each other a few days, but they’d bonded through their mutual concern for Angel. Their friendship had developed rapidly during the crisis, which was unusual for Melanie. She didn’t make friends easily or quickly, although her reckless behavior in high school had made her quite popular for a time, she thought dryly.
“No one did it to me. It was an accident. Let’s just forget it.”
“Easy to say until you develop a nasty infection,” Dr. Wilder scolded. “Now hold still.”
The door opened and Blanca, Dr. Wilder’s nurse, stuck her head around the corner. Tossing back her long black hair, she eyed them curiously for a moment before she spoke. She was a young woman, Melanie’s age perhaps, with delicate features and a curvaceous figure reminiscent of old Hollywood. The word lush always came to mind when Melanie saw her.
But Blanca’s eyes were her most striking feature. Dark, wide and soulful, they glinted with suspicion every time she turned her gaze on Melanie.
The woman’s instant and overt animosity was something Melanie still didn’t understand.
“There is a man here to see you, Doctor,” Blanca said in Spanish.
“English, please, Blanca.” Dr. Wilder barely glanced up. “What does he want?”
He still held Melanie’s hand, and Blanca’s curiosity turned into a scowl of disapproval as she continued to observe them from across the room. “He said it was official business. A matter of extreme importance,” she said in heavily accented English.
“He’ll have to come back.” Dr. Wilder released Melanie and began gathering supplies to suture her wrist.
“Wait a minute,” Melanie said. “He could be with the Ministry of Health. Maybe you should see him.”
Dr. Wilder gave a scornful laugh. “The minister won’t even return my phone calls. I highly doubt he’d send an emissary in person to meet with me.”
“What should I tell him?” Blanca asked.
“Just what I said,” Dr. Wilder replied curtly. “I’m with a patient. He’ll have to come back later. In an hour.”
Blanca’s mouth tightened, but she left the room without a word and closed the door more soundly than necessary behind her.
“She seemed upset,” Melanie said. “Maybe you should go see who this man is.”
Dr. Wilder shrugged. “Blanca is quite capable of taking care of the matter.”
“She does seem efficient,” Melanie said carefully. “How long has she worked for you?”
“A few months. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just get the impression she’s very protective of you.”
He turned away quickly, but not before Melanie saw a look of embarrassment flicker over his features. “I’m going to give you a local, but it may still sting a bit.”
He was hiding something, she decided. Obviously, he didn’t want to discuss his relationship with Blanca, but why? Was there something going on between them that Melanie had somehow missed?
If so, that would go a long way in explaining Blanca’s attitude, particularly if she regarded Melanie as a potential rival for Dr. Wilder’s affection.
But if she only knew, Melanie thought with a grimace. Romance was the last thing she needed. And besides, what man in his right mind would ever understand, let alone accept, this…thing she could do?
Melanie didn’t even understand it herself, but she knew instinctively that no good would come of it.
Where science is corrupted, evil often flourishes.
Dr. Wilder’s warning suddenly came back to her, and her hand jerked reflexively.
He looked up. “I’m sorry. Am I hurting you?”
“Not much.”
“I’ll try to be quick.”
He was as gentle as he could be, but thirteen stitches later, Melanie was fervently wishing for a hit of the Percocet she’d seen in the infirmary last night.
“I’M DR. WILDER. My nurse said you wanted to see me?”
“Jon Lassiter.”
Neither man offered the other his hand. Instead, Dr. Wilder walked around his desk and motioned to a chair across from him.
“Thanks, but I prefer to stand,” Lassiter said.
“As you wish.” Dr. Wilder took a seat and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?” His voice was surprisingly calm, considering how tense he’d seemed when Lassiter had been ushered into his office.
“I work for Kruger Petroleum. We had an intruder in our compound last night.”
Wilder lifted his brows. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?”
“The only thing missing were antibiotics. An odd choice, considering there were several opiates within easy reach, including morphine. Not a big demand on the black market for tetracycline.”
Wilder grimaced. “You obviously aren’t aware of the latest epidemic.”
“I know about the fever,” Lassiter said. “I also know that you have a patient here at the clinic, a girl about five years of age, who has typhuslike symptoms. Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor, but the treatment for an infection caused by rickettsia bacterium is heavy antibiotic therapy, preferably tetracycline or chloramphenicol.”
Something flickered in Wilder’s eyes, but his expression never changed. “Are you accusing me of stealing your antibiotics, young man?”
“You don’t match the description of the thief.”
“Then I ask you again, what does any of this have to do with me?” Impatience had crept into Wilder’s voice, but something else was there, too. Lassiter had the distinct impression Wilder was protecting someone.
“The